


Ruby Scars

by Alphinss



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, BAMF Merlin, Banished, Exile, King Merlin - Freeform, Magic Revealed, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Powerful Merlin, Punishment, Scarred Merlin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-09-20 23:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17031597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphinss/pseuds/Alphinss
Summary: Arthur finds out about Merlin’s magic. He’s so angry he banishes Merlin from Camelot and with it destroys the bonds that they had always had. When, ten years later he needs to make a peace deal with a magical kingdom, how will Arthur cope with the King of the kingdom; an infuriating man that he can’t help but feel in his heart, that he recognizes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THis kind of just happened. I'm not sure if I wll continue writing it. But I enjoyed writing what I have so far. So let me know what you think :)

It had all happened so quickly that Merlin hadn’t had a chance. Not to stop it, not to stop Arthur, not to stop the witch. The only thing that he had been able to do was to throw his arms in the air, eyes flashing a beautiful gold, magic exploding from his fingers. He had only been able to stop the furnace of fire that had been rocketing toward him, toward Arthur. Gold had mingled with red as the fire had smashed into the stone walls. Black.

 

That was all Merlin had been able to do.

 

He had thrown the witch to the wall in another thrust of his hand. He wasn’t even thinking. His brain had not yet caught up to what had just happened. It was only telling him to protect the man behind him. To protect his King. To protect his best friend. That was all that had been in his head as he had used the witch’s own flames to burn her into nothing more than ash. For Arthur. 

 

So as Merlin had stood there panting, magic heavy in the room, he hadn’t thought for one second that Arthur would not want it. He had saved him and saved his kingdom so many times and in so many ways that it that moment Merlin could only feel relief and the tingle of happiness. He had saved Arthur, once again, all was well with the world.

 

That was when Merlin had turned. That was when he had seen Arthur. Had seen the rage and disgust that marred his face. That had not been Arthur. That was the face of a man that Merlin had thought long dead. It was Uther’s face that now stared back at him. It had been there in the anger filled eyes.   

 

"Sorcerer!" The words had held more aggression then Merlin had ever heard come from the blonde’s mouth. He had felt a part of him begin to crack, thin lines shattering the soul that he had so delicately kept together. He had almost been able to feel the pain rippling through him at the word. 

 

"Arthur" Merlin had stepped forward; desperation had been clear in his tone. "I…"

 

Merlin had not had a chance to get any further. Arthur had bridged the gap between them and in that glorious moment, Merlin had felt a glimmer of hope. A chance at healing. He had looked up with hopeful eyes.

 

However Arthur had violently grabbed the front of the tattered shirt. He had lifted his hand into the air and with what felt like the strength of the entirety of Camelot, Arthur had back handed Merlin across the side of his face. 

 

Metal had cut into skin, the rings that marked out Arthur as King of Camelot being used for their intended purpose. They were there to rule over their subjects. To punish, as they saw fit. Merlin hadn’t been sure what had hurt worse.  

 

Merlin had fallen to the floor with a thud as the King, whom had once been his friend had dropped the tattered material in disgust. A hand had come up to clasp his broken face. Blood had trickled through the fingers, dripping to the stone floor. 

 

Arthur’s own hand had dropped to his side. Blood was running from the rings that had caused such an explosion of pain. It had looked as through the very rubies that were set in the ring, a sign of wealth, courage, protection and a love for his people were bleeding. It had been a rather grim site.

 

"Get out" the words had been whispered, but they had been so angry. So very angry.

 

Merlin hadn’t needed to be asked twice. Hand still clasped to his face he had run from the hall, stumbling over his own feet. He hadn’t looked back. 

 

Arthur had been left, alone. The blood of his best friend had begun to dry, cracking into the crevices of his skin.

* * *

It had been ten years to the day since the day that Arthur had banished Merlin from his kingdom. A lot had changed. Not all of it good. Ever since Merlin had left, there seemed to be something lacking. The world didn’t seem so bright anymore. 

 

Arthur had married Guinevere six months after Merlin had been banished. In the last ten years they had had four children, all of them boys. Amhar was his oldest at nine summers. Gwydre was a little younger at eight, but he was already beginning to learn the ways of fighting, being far more interested in it than his elder brother. Llacheu was only five summers old and still hid behind his mother’s dresses whenever he was in the company of anyone that he did not know. Lastly was Loholt. He was the youngest at three and therefore still spent most of his time with nurse maids rather than being in the public eye.

 

Arthur loved his family, he did, but there was still a distance between them. One that Arthur had never tried to dissuade them from having. Father was his only form of address, other than My King, in more formal situations.

 

Arthur rarely spent time with the boys, being far too busy with running a kingdom that was intent on stamping out any and all magic that it came across. The only time he spent time with them was in their training. Yet that time was spent with the sons of knights and noblemen. There was no time. He could barely remember the last time he had seen, let alone played with his youngest. Arthur could admit that he was not a good father.    

 

The corridors of the great castle that he had once lived in, so full of life, were now as dark and jaded as their owner. After Merlin had left Lancelot and Gawain were soon to follow. It had been a week before either of them had discovered their missing friend as both had been on a scouting mission. They had left together, not even a word to their king. Their Camelot robes had been found the next morning. They had been in shreds.

 

Gaius had stayed. Yet the man was nothing like the one that the castle had once known. He was withdrawn and spoke very little to anyone. In the first few years after Merlin had left, the man would leave, sometimes for days or weeks on end, without a word. He would return, each time, with less and less of himself.

 

However those missions had stopped as Gaius became unable to continue them. He had fallen ill one winter, age and despair, no one was really sure what it was that afflicted him. He had not made it to the spring. The man had died in his sleep. Alone and hopeless. That had been four years ago.

 

Camelot could feel the weight of the despair. The very castle seemed to mourn the loss of its inhabitants. Laughter no longer echoed through the halls. Playful jeers and taunts were a thing of the past. Even in the height of summer, the corridors felt cold and empty. The life that was once there seemed drained.

 

Arthur gritted his teeth as he watched the procession of people enter the courtyard. Today may be a day where his temper was far more volatile than usual, but he really needed to keep it.       

 

Due to Arthur’s persecution of magical people and creatures alike, they had all fled Camelot and found refuge in a Kingdom not so far away. That of Thira. That should have been joyful for Arthur. Ridding his kingdom of magic had always been his goal. However recently it had been made apparent to Arthur just how powerful this kingdom had become; how much of a threat they could be.

 

On a scouting mission a group of Thirians had been found in Camelot territory. Knowing of their magic, the knights of Camelot had attacked. The group had been on foot, women and children among them. They should have been an easy target. They had not been.

 

It had, according to his knights, been a battle that had lasted mere seconds. Magic had sparked through the forest and all ten of the knights had been knocked from their horses. Without time to stand the men had been frozen in place, magic being the obvious culprit. A man had stepped forward, cloaked in black.

 

"Take the horses. We could do with some help on our journey." As the man commanded the action several members of the group stepped forward, soothing the spooked beasts.

 

"Leave the supplies." he interrupted. "We are not cruel."

 

The knights could feel the scorn and mockery in the words, even with the man’s face fully covered. It was obvious that this man knew of Camelot and its crimes against people like those that stood around him.

 

It had taken the knights two weeks to return. Most had thought that they had been killed. After telling their story it had been decided that peace was the best policy with the kingdom of Thira. Those that could stop ten men in a second were not to be had as enemies. There was really no other choice. His people were not ready for a war.  

 

 

However, that meant one thing; allowing a meeting to arrange the terms of their peace. It meant that the gates of Camelot must be opened for them to create this peace. It meant that Arthur needed to knowingly let witches into a place that prided itself on their destruction. Arthur would have to keep himself in check to not just order their slaughter.  

 

In the courtyard, there currently stood thirteen people. Some were dressed in simple clothing, while others wore cloaks that could have had them mistaken for royalty. Some had hoods pulled down so low that only their mouths were visible. Several of them were barefoot; tattoos peaked from under their clothing. Arthur recognized several of the swirls as druid symbols. Yet, there were others with ornate swords at their waists and chainmail covering them from head to toe. Many other weapons were among the group, bows, daggers, axes and several staffs. It was a very odd assortment of people.

 

However as Arthur looked through the group of mismatched people could not detect the leader among them. How frustrating. Arthur made a big show of opening the large castle doors, hoping that the one that they called their King would step forward.

 

They made no movements.

 

Arthur was growing frustrated. 

 

"You have traveled far. Come inside and we can begin the feast."

 

None of them moved. They merely looked up at the sky, as though they were expecting something to happen. Arthur’s fists clenched. He was not used to being ignored.

 

"I insist" he tried again. "Let the festivities begin."

 

It was as though he had said nothing at all. There was not even a blink of acknowledgment. Their eyes merely remained on the clouds that seemed to drift across the murky grey sky.

 

This was not something that his knights approved of. Disrespect of their King was never acceptable. Sir Leon stepped forward, drawing his sword from its sheath.     

 

"How dare you!" the knight demanded. Arthur’s eyes widened slightly. This was not good. He could not have bloodshed in the first five minutes.

 

"He is the King" Leon continued.

 

One of the group finally turned to look at the enraged knight. It was a woman with bright red hair, which was rare in these lands. She was dressed in ornate armor that fitted her like a glove. Her hand was placed on the pummel of a sword that was as large as Leon’s own.

 

"He is no King of mine." She sneered, before her eyes returned to the sky. Arthur watched as Leon’s face turned a brilliant red, as red as the woman’s hair.

 

Arthur stepped forward, ready to stop the inevitable fight. This was not the time or the place for such theatrics.

 

However he didn’t even get down the first step, before a large and piercing screech filled the sky. Every eye looked up. Their mouths dropped equally as quickly. Leon’s sword clattered to the cobbles of the courtyard.

 

Large white wings stood out against the grey background. They came closer and closer, bigger than anything that many of the members of Camelot had ever seen. Fire spewed from its mouth, painting the sky red and orange. It burned away any of their doubts. It was a Dragon.

 

It was impossible. It couldn’t be. Arthur was wide eyed and without his consent, he felt his body begin to tremble. He had killed the last dragon. It had been dead. He had protected Camelot from the monster. There were no more. It was not possible.

 

The beast landed in the courtyard with a thump. The flap of its wings, caused a wind to whistle around the open space. The creature was pure white, from its nose to its tail. It was not as large as the dragon that Arthur had killed and seemed younger, more wild somehow. 

 

A long minute passed in utter shock. The whole courtyard was frozen. It was only when several of the members of the Thirian visitors stepped forward, that the knights seemed to be snapped out of their fear.

 

The sound of swords being taken from their sheaths filled the courtyard. Every eye was on the dragon. Every arrow, axe, sword and dagger was pointed at the beast.

 

"I wouldn’t " A smug sounding voice echoed through the stone. It seemed to emanate from the dragon. But that really was impossible. "He doesn’t much like weapons."

 

A shadow of movement. A patch of black on the otherwise porcelain skin. A figure seemed to appear from nowhere. Black hood and cloak covered him as he stood from the dragon, making his way across the wing which the dragon seemed to extend for him.       

 

"Thank you Aithusa" the figure bowed his head to the dragon. "You know how clumsy I can be."

 

The dragon seemed to snort at that, embers flickering from its nostrils. If Arthur had been anyone else he might have said that the creature was laughing. But that was impossible.

 

"You best be off Aithusa" the figure hummed. Arthur stopped. The voice. He didn’t know what it was. There was a touch of recognition verging on the edge of his consciousness. He could have sworn that he had heard it before. He shook himself. Of course he hadn’t.

 

The dragon had not moved after the man had spoken. It had what looked to be a serious expression on its face. Was it sulking? No, of course it wasn’t. The whole notion of that was ludicrous.

 

"I can make you" the man’s tone was stern. The dragon huffed.

 

"I know. How unfair your life is," the man mocked. "now, off you go."

 

The dragon seemed to have got the message. It flapped its wings several times, propelling itself into the air. Then it was off, flying to god knows where.

 

It was only after the dragon was only a dot on the horizon that the man finally turned. However it wasn’t Arthur or his knights that drew the man’s attention. Rather it was the members of his own kingdom.

 

Arthur could only watch as the black covered man walked through the group. He went up to each member of the group and spoke whispered words to them, placing a hand to their head. It wasn’t until the man had got through around half of his group that he was close enough to see what it was that the man was really doing.

 

Gold was sparking from pale fingers as they rested on the forehead of each member of the circle that had surrounded him. The spark of magic was dancing across each and every visitor that the man had sent to the courtyard. If the dragon hadn’t been enough of a clue, Arthur knew that the man, their leader, was open mockery of him now. Magic. Magic in Camelot. What a disgraceful site.

 

What happened next would have been apparent to a father with any sense. However, Arthur was not that. Any knowledgeable father knows that children, especially five year olds, are very curious creatures. Even if they are shy by nature. Once they are curious they tend to seek out what it is that has peaked their interest, and if Arthur was close enough to see the magic on the fingers of the man, then so was Llacheu.

 

"Pretty" the small voice of the second youngest Pendragon proclaimed. Then, far too quickly for any of the members of the crowd to catch him, the brown haired boy ran toward the source of his fascination; the bright twinkle of gold.   

 

Before anyone could really register what was happening the young boy was before the black cloaked man, pulling at the material.

 

"Show me" he had demanded before any reaction could even be thought of.

 

The man looked down at the small boy.

 

Several of the members of the guard had taken a few steps forward. However this was a peaceful meeting. They would wait for orders from their King. But if there seemed to be danger toward their prince, they would not hesitate to act.

 

Not caring for the dirt and dust that layered the floor, the man knelt before the small boy.   

 

"Show you? " the man’s voice sounded pleasant and playful. It was obvious he was used to children. Arthur shook himself. A shiver ran up his spine. He knew that voice. But how?

 

"What do you want me to show you? "

 

"The lights" Llacheu said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Arthur tensed. His own son was asking to see magic. How very humiliating.

 

"Are you sure you wouldn’t rather an animal instead?" the man hummed "What’s your favorite?"

 

That was too far. Even for Arthur.

 

"Llacheu, come here. Right now. " That drew the boy’s attention but he did not move. He wanted to see the light.

 

"He is fine Arthur. Let him be. He wants to see the lights." The man was mocking him. Addressing him so informally, telling him how to take care of his son. The man had put his hand on Llacheu’s shoulder, drawing his attention back.

 

They hadn’t even been formally introduced. Arthur had no idea who the stranger was. Not his name, his rank, nothing. He could have been nothing more than a manservant for all he knew. Arthur was angry. No one treated him like this and got away with it.

 

"Llacheu!" Arthur shouted this time. He would not let his son he corrupted by magic. He would not this man make a mockery of him. He was King.

 

However it was as though his son couldn’t hear him. The boy didn’t even look his way.

 

"Llacheu!" Again, no response.

 

"Arthur" Guinevere quietly interrupted what would have soon become a rant at his son. "Look at his lips."    

 

It was then that Arthur saw it. His son’s lips were moving. But there was no sound coming out. It was as though a bubble had suddenly formed around them. There was no sound coming from his son or the man beside him. If Arthur couldn’t hear his son then his son probably couldn’t hear him.

 

That was it. He had had enough. He was going to retrieve his unruly son. Well, one of his knights was.  

 

"Leon"

 

"On it Sire"

 

However before the knight had a chance to move even a step a beautiful bird, made of gold and silver magic, rocketed into the air. Wind rustled through the courtyard as it flapped its wings. It was there for mere seconds, before the magic faded, sparkles of it rushing through the air like fireworks.  

 

"There you go Llacheu." Arthur heard the man speak. "A beautiful bird for a beautiful boy. Now," he patted the five year old on the head "Why don’t you head back to your mother?" The man had made his way back to his feet.

 

Llacheu gave a small nod, before he scurried back to his mother’s skirts. He avoided his Father’s gaze at all costs.

 

"Well then Arthur Pendragon" the man was finally addressing him.

 

"Are you going to invite us in?"   


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three hours. Three hours since the courtyard, three hours since servants had led the group of magicals to their designated rooms, to change, bathe and prepare themselves for dinner.

  
The group had been put in the wing furthest away from the rest of the inhabitants. It was a wing that had, in Arthur’s memory, never been used. His only concern regarding it, was that it was kept clean by the servants.The wing had not been occupied since Arthur’s mother had died. It was the wing which his father had banned any visitors from ever staying in. Yet, it seemed it was finally time to have it filled.

  
It was really the only way to have magical visitors stay in the castle at all. There were too many of them and they made the rest of the members of the castle far too uncomfortable. It was the only place where they were far enough away to be safe. If they were going to desecrate the castle with their magic, they may as well use an area that would never be used again after they left.

  
However, Arthur wasn’t thinking about the origins of the wing of the castle at that very moment. Instead he was once again trying to suppress his frustration. Three hours, the group were supposed to be finished in two. They were late. They were an hour late. It was a disgrace.

  
Food was being kept warm in the kitchens. Yet servants and nobility alike were getting restless. It was rude to eat until ones guests had arrived. However this was getting ridiculous. Arthur had never had guests arrive this late. He was a King. What were these clowns playing at?

  
This was not the way that he should be treated. He was the ruler of the very ground that they were stepping on. He held more power in the dust that lay behind him than that wizard with notions of grander would ever hold. He was nothing more than a child, playing with sparks. Reigning over the casts off from another country. That was nothing even near resembling power.

The doors to the hall finally slammed open. Arthur wanted to punch the living daylights out of each and every magic possessing heretic that was walking through those doors. He wanted all of them out of his kingdom. He wanted to watch as his knights pierced their hearts with their sharpest swords. But there was no way to do that. He needed that deal. But that didn’t mean that he had to like it.

  
Arthur was on the verge of shouting, yelling, screaming at their leader as he walked though the door. However his mouth snapped shut as he saw the man walking through the door. His hood was down and his face looked like something from another world. Arthur shuddered at the site.  
Arthur felt a bubble of wrongness in his stomach. He felt uncomfortable at the site before him. Yet there was no way for him to look away.

  
It was clear that the man could not see out his right eye. It was fully red, pupil and iris not being distinguishable within the sea of red. The whole of the eye was a deep scarlet. It reminded Arthur of some of the evil beasts that he he’d faced. Dark and malicious. It made him uncomfortable.  
The eye was surrounded by three deep scars. Whatever had caused the scars had clearly been the cause of the blindness and the eye that seemed to radiate violence and wrongness. It wasn’t evil, but it caused Arthur to feel uneasy and maybe sad. One of the scars even ran from tear duct to temple. It had obviously been made with vicious intent.

  
However they were not then only thing that stood out about the man. His other eye was a bright gold that seemed to tingle with magic. It was as though it were compensating for the other side of his face. Two sides of one whole. It was as though one had been broken and twisted, while the other struggled to survive on magic alone.

  
This image was only highlighted by the left side of the man’s head. It was shaved, looking as though the hair had only been shaved mere seconds ago. On the bald patch of his head, there was a rather magical looking tattoo.

  
Arthur knew that it very much resembled a rune circle. A pattern of interlocking lines and circles dominated the centre of the circle. While along the edges there were various runes. Arthur recognised some of them; strength, death, magic, power. They were the ones that stood out to him.

  
The other side of the man’s head utterly juxtaposed the shaved side. Hair was long, down to the man’s shoulders. It seemed messy and unkempt, harshly contrasting the groomed and well cared for tattooed area.

  
While the man’s right ear was covered by the long hair, the man’s left ear was punctured in several places. There was a piece of what looked like delicately carved ivory running around the shell of the ear. It was like nothing Arthur had ever seen. What Arthur didn’t know was that it was piece of dragon tooth that was pinned into the man’s ear.

  
A beard framed the bottom half of the face. But even that looked strange. It was as though it didn’t belong on the man’s face. It was misplaced and messy.

  
The man seemed to be a contradiction of himself. It was as though there were two halves of himself. The two halves conflicted, they didn’t fit with one another. Arthur had to wonder what had happened to the man. He just seemed so, Arthur didn’t know how to explain it. But whatever it was, it made him feel sad. It was though the broken feelings that seemed to emanate from the man were his own.

  
Arthur was snapped from the feeling of loneliness that seemed to have come over him, as the monstrosity of a man spoke to the room of people that could not take their eyes off him.  
“Apologies for our late arrival.” The man did not seem sorry at all. His face was in a large grin. It would have been playful, if not for the very nature of his face. It was off-putting. Even with a friendly look on it.

  
“We had our evening rituals to attend to.” He raised a brow. “Appreciating the gift of magic is something that cannot be rushed.”

  
That caused some uneasy mumbles to ripple through the hall. Magic was not spoken of in Camelot. The very words caused unease and distrust from everyone around them. It was unnerving to see people that embraced magic as though it were part of their very being.  
“It can’t be helped” Arthur scowled. “Please sit. We shall eat now”

  
The man, who’s name Arthur had still not been graced with sat and his companions soon followed. He seemed rather amused by the whole situation. He kept looking from the servants to his place, to those around him and then back again.

  
Arthur only watched him. He could not figure this man out at all and he could not shake the overwhelming sense of recognition mingled with sadness that filled him when he looked at the man. There was something about him. Arthur really didn't know how to explain it.

  
The progression of the meal was rather uneventful, with only a few scared looks from the servants toward their guests. There was very little talk and most of the eating was carried out in an awkward silence.

  
However it seemed that their magical visitors were still able to communicate with one another, even without speaking their words aloud. On several occasions it was as though they were able to read each other’s thoughts. They passed things to each other and gave meaningful glances without a word.

  
The meal was finishing up, all the plates removed and glasses had ceased to be filled. However no one was leaving. The King was the only one who could allow that.  
Arthur stood.

  
“Our meal is over. We must ask you to remain in your quarters until sunrise tomorrow. Then you will be escorted to breakfast.”

  
A smile lit up the face that didn’t seem to fit the man.

  
“You can ask” the mockery was clear.

  
“Your safety…” Arthur started to growl out.

  
“Is not an issue,” the man interrupted. “We can take care of ourselves.”

  
“I must insist” Arthur scowled.

  
“Go ahead” the man was nearly laughing.

  
“Sir” Arthur was getting close to ordering an execution.

  
However the word seemed to stop the man in his tracks. His face fell slightly. It was as though that very word had been the pin in a balloon.He popped. All the air left him. The man looked away from the King before him. His eyes seemed to fill with something Arthur could not place.  
However it only lasted a second. The man shook himself. He forced a smile back onto his face. It didn’t fit.

  
“That’s right” his voice was not filled with the same joy that had been there seconds ago. “We have not been introduced.”

  
Arthur didn’t really register the words. He couldn’t shake the sadness that had suddenly welled up within him. He wanted to see the smile again, the real one. The face felt so empty without it.

“I am King of Thira, Lord of the Druids, Speaker of Dragons and The One True Warlock”  
That brought Arthur back to reality. Back with a harsh thud. He knew who this man was. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. There was no way that the man was standing here in Camelot.

“Emrys” Neither of them was sure who had said it.

  
Arthur looked wide eyed at the man before him. No, he couldn’t be. This couldn’t be Emrys. The man that Arthur had met. The one that had saved his life. The man that he had tried to execute.  
Yet as he looked into the eye that seemed to spark an even brighter gold, Arthur wondered how he could have ever thought the man was anyone else. Gone was the exterior of an old man and the backdrop of the small cabin. Yet, who else could it be?

  
This was the man that had destroyed Morgana’s army with a wave of his hand. This was the man that had evaded and escaped capture more than every other magical. This was the man who had broken into Camelot’s prisons over the last three years and taken over fifty prisoners that had been judged worthy of execution.

  
This man was the biggest enemy that Camelot had ever had. Yet as Arthur looked at him, all he wanted to do was cry.

 

* * *

  
Merlin was drained. He sat in the chambers that they had been given by the King himself. Invited in with pomp and glory. A worthy guest. One that was treated as royalty. Merlin rubbed his hand over his face. This was not the Camelot that Merlin remembered. It was so…empty.  
A knock sounded on the door, drawing Merlin from what could have very easily have been a depreciating spiral of self doubt and painful memories. Which would have ultimately have led Merlin to questioning the reasoning behind his return to Camelot at all. He was rather glad to be shaken from it.

  
“Enter” Merlin called out. His hands massaging his temples.  
The door was soon pushed open to reveal a figure well known to his eyes. Even as the man was covered from head to toe in black.

  
“You can take the hood down Gwaine. There’s no one here to see your face.”

  
The hood was pulled down. The roguish smile and messy hair greeted merlin. He was still one of the most good looking knights to have ever graced Camelot’s halls, even after so many years.  
“Good Evening, King Emrys” Merlin rolled his eyes at the man.

  
“Don’t call me that.” Merlin scowled. “ Now, what do you want?”

  
“Well Merlin,” Gwaine grinned. “Lance, Mordred and I were thinking that we should head to the tavern. You know, for old time’s sake.” The grin was nearly blinding. “You in?”

  
Merlin paused, thinking over the proposal. He had not been there in so many years. He went there even less than people expected. Saving Camelot had always come first. In fact, Merlin didn’t think that he had ever spent an evening with Gwaine and Lancelot. Even when he had lived in Camelot.

 

Well, what did he have to loose?

  
“Alright then. Let’s do it.” Merlin smiled, however his eyes twinkled sadly. “A drink for Gaius.”  
Gwaine’s own smile faltered. However he quickly plastered it back onto his face. Yet there was now a sad twinkle in his eyes. It was the smile of sadness mixed with fondness. The memories of the old man were joyful, but they left a painful twinge in the heart.

“For Gaius” Gwaine agreed.

  
It didn’t take long for the group to prepare themselves for the outing. Lancelot and Gwaine were dressed in black from head to toe, their heads covered as to avoid recognition. Magic enhanced their hoods, so no gusts of winds or wandering hands

  
Merlin was wearing more casual attire. However it was still obviously expensive material that covered his body. A blue shirt that was decorated with intricate embroidery was matched with a set of black trousers and even darker shoes. A grey cloak to fight against the cold weather finished off the ensemble.

  
Mordred was probably the man that stood out amongst them. Mystery was far less conspicuous than the blatant magic that covered every inch of Mordred’s form. Merlin, Gwaine and Lancelot could cover their identity with a hood and a little magic. It was not so easy for Mordred.  
After Mordred’s rescue from Camelot castle, he had returned to the druids, resuming his life and training as it had been before his master had been executed. After Merlin’s own banishment he had joined the young man. It had taken some time and some rather binding magical oaths, but Merlin had managed to remove Morgana’s influence from the young man’s impressionable mind.

Merlin had apologised for his actions and started both of them on a new and equal footing.  
This meant that Mordred had stayed with the druids for almost all of his life. From eleven to fifteen he had been there alone. Morgana had begin to sink his claws into him, no matter how slowly. However Merlin had arrived and had helped him see that magic was for everyone. Hurting people, no matter their views, only made you like them. You had to prove them wrong. They had to show the people of Camelot that they were better than them.

  
It was in those next five years that Mordred had fully embraced his druid origins. He lived by their teaching and traditions; embracing that aspect of himself. He therefore went through many of the rituals that were involved with the growing up of druid children. Even if he was a little behind. He was friends with the great Emrys. Who were the druids to deny him?

  
Druid life dictated a strong connection with nature. No matter place or weather, one must connect themselves. Mordred’s clothing was therefore minimal; a blue hood, a white shirt and brown trousers. His feet were bare against the stone of the castle. Tattoos also ran along the expanse of much of his visible skin and a lot of that which was not visible as well.

  
The black ink of runic symbols danced around his fingers and curled around his wrists, under his shirt. Thick black bands of intricately written script, wrapped around his ankles, resembling cuffs. Yet they were nothing close to resembling constraints.

  
Due to the nature of his magical culture, Mordred could not cover up his marks. It was a disrespect to the magic that he had been gifted with. While Merlin could merely pull up his hood, Modred was always on display.

  
Therefore as the group walked through the darkening streets of Camelot they were followed by eyes at every corner. No one approached them, yet Merlin could feel the gazes of every single eye. The gazes were intrusive, violent and scared.

  
It was obvious that Camelot was far from the accepting place that it had once been.  
The four men, eyes still on them, entered the darkened door way of the pub that had once housed such noise and vibrancy. It was scarcely recognisable. It was no longer the place that Merlin had, on occasion, been to. It was no longer filled with laughter and the drunken singing of knights that had had a few too many.

  
The four men sat in a corner table, one that had once been Gwaine’s claimed area. There were only a few other patrons in the room and they all looked toward the group with suspicion.  
Gwaine made his way to the bar, always the one to encourage drinking. Even after so many years it was hard to stop the man getting utterly intoxicated and making a fool of himself.  
“Four of your finest, my good sir.” One could hear the grin in his face even if it was cloaked in darkness. Even with the establishment, deserted from customers, the bar keeper still seemed unimpressed with the request.

  
He scowled at the ex-knight, hidden from recognition. He didn’t say a word as he turned to grab the wooden cups from the shelf behind him. With a thunderous look on his face he filled the glasses from the barrel of beer, not even looking to Gwaine.

  
“8 silvers” was the only gruff words that the man spoke. He grabbed the money from the outstretched hand, before turning his attention to another patron standing at the bar. Gwaine knew when he was dismissed. He grabbed the beers from the bar top.

  
The night went smoothly for the most part. Eyes and words were on them through the evening, but they were easy to ignore. Especially as Gwaine and then Lancelot produced more and more beer for the group. They were each four in, when the evening took a rather unsavoury turn.

  
A group of knights, obviously returning from training, entered the darkening room. The sun was no longer present in the sky and with its absence the tavern was becoming more full. Still dressed in Camelot robes, emblazoned with their bright crests, five knights immediately headed to the bar. They quickly drank a sizeable amount, gulping it down without blinking. It was evident that the five had had rather a tough day.

  
However their drinking speed was of no importance. It was not what kept every member of the table glued to the men. The four of them looked, with sadness lingering in the alcohol swirled eyes. They knew that they would see ghosts of the past. They knew that they would be forced to face those that they had once called friends. But they had not expected to face it so soon.  
“Em” Lancelot whispered, in a pained voice, littered with slight intoxication. Merlin could feel his breath on his ear, his face was so close.

  
“I know” Merlin muttered in response.

  
Leon, his hair far longer and his beard more unkempt, was leaning against the bar. Merlin could see his throat bob as he swallowed the beer from his second mug. Percival looked even more muscular than the last time Merlin had seen him. He was almost bulging out of his sleeveless chainmail. He still seemed as impenetrable to the cold, as ever.

  
Merlin, Lancelot and Gwaine couldn’t take their eyes off the two men.

  
It had been ten years since they had seen the pair, yet they hadn’t changed at all. With the buzz of alcohol fuzzing their minds, it seemed a perfectly logical action, to do nothing but stare. They could not pull their eyes away.

  
It seemed as though their staring summoned the attention of the knights that stood mere meters away. The group couldn’t be sure how long it had been, but eyes were soon back at their own staring ones. There was suspicion there, which quickly changed into active anger. It seemed that they realised who was sitting in the corner of the room.

  
“You were told to remain in your chambers.” It was one of the newer knights. They looked young, inexperienced maybe. Merlin was sure that he could crush the man in mere seconds. He was so young, so breakable.

  
Merlin raised a brow at the young man’s words. He may be slightly tipsy, the alcohol making him a little emotional, but he was the most powerful person in creation. He was the one and only Warlock. He was the last Dragon Lord. He ruled over his own kingdom. He was not to be intimidated by some pompous, indoctrinated, Camelot knight.

  
“So we were” Merlin raised a brow. What were they going to do about it?

  
Merlin took another sip from the beer in his hand. He kept his eyes on the knight that had questioned his presence. Merlin was not the young man that he had once been. He was not a manservant that would just roll over at the word of a knight.

  
“You should follow the King’s orders.” The knight’s face was in an angry scowl, red tingling at the edges of his cheeks.

  
“And why is that?” Merlin looked unimpressed.

  
“He’s your King!”

  
Merlin rolled his eyes. These knights were like children. Or at least this one was. His clenched fists and progressively reddening face were a sign that he should not be wearing the crested robes.

  
“No one is my King but me, sir knight” Merlin turned back to his beer.

  
The knight stepped forward. His teeth were clenched.

  
“How dare you talk…” the knight began to yell as he stepped even closer.

  
However he was very rapidly prevented from getting any further. Gwaine, Lancelot and Mordred were in front of the man in a second. The two cloaked men had their hands on their swords, while Mordred held up his hand, magic twinkling at his finger tips.

  
“Back off” It was Lancelot’s voice that threatened from under the hood.

  
The man stopped as he looked at the three men before him.

  
“Threatening a Knight of Camelot. What do you think…” It was not Lancelot that interrupted the knight this time.

  
“Stand down Jasper.”

  
Percival had turned his attention toward the commotion that was happening behind him. He was looking to the young man with an undeserved uniform. His face was far from impressed. The man then turned his attention toward the four men that no longer fit within the kingdom.

  
“Lord Emrys” the words held respect, but the tone did not. “Allow me to escort you and your…” he cast a glance at Mordred, Gwaine and Lancelot “companions, back to your quarters.”  
Now, that was how one threatened someone. Merlin was pleased that Camelot had not been totally thrown to the dogs. There were some people that could still keep the kingdom on its feet.  
Merlin stood. He spoke for the first time.

  
“Very well sir Percival, show us the way.”


	3. Chapter 3

The four had been escorted back to their rooms without any trouble. Although the harsh looks that Percival kept casting at them were less than comforting. The four of them, after the rather vicious altercation with the knights of Camelot, had decided to turn in for the night. It they would be far safer if they were to sleep and let the occupants of Camelot convince themselves that they didn't exist.

Several hours ago, they had retreated to their own rooms, or at least Merlin had. Lance and Gwaine were sharing with each other along with two others. One was Claudin, with a past life as a sell-sword who’s daughter had been cursed by a vengeful family member of someone that he had killed. Looking for a cure the man he had wondered into Thira. He had not left. The other was Ragnell, Nell for short; the rather fierce woman who had been on the verge of punching Leon in the face, waiting for Merlin to arrive.

Mordred, on the other hand, was sharing with the three of the other druids that had joined them in their trip to Camelot. Merlin didn’t envy him that. He was sure that the youngest of their group, Olwen, at only eighteen, would be talking well into the early hours of the morning. That was if someone didn’t decide to cast a silencing ward on her. Merlin couldn’t blame her too much for her excited babble, though. After all, she had just finished her full initiation into the druid clan and this was to be her first mission outside of Thira.

Even though hours had passed since the other three had retreated to their room, Merlin was still wide awake, his brain filled with a bombardment of thoughts. It had been ten years. A long time. A very long time. Maybe it was too long. Maybe it wasn’t. Merlin’s thoughts were a mess. He was having a hard time seeing up from down.   
There was only one place in Camelot that he could think straight. There had only ever been one place where he had been fully accepted; where he had been given a chance to be himself.

Merlin pushed open his door.

It was late, or early, however you were looking at it, meaning that there were very few people wondering the corridors. Merlin didn’t see anyone on his trip along the stone, that he had once slunk along every day.

It was deserted, but not to him. Not to Merlin. As he walked though the corridors, twisting and turning, he could hear them, feel them, see them, even as they were not there. Arthur’s voice joking with him. The knights laughing uproariously. Guinevere reminding him that he had a chore to do, or fixing his neckerchief with a cheeky smile.

The place that had been filled with life. The place that he had loved. It was now so empty. Far too quiet. It was as though the joy had been sucked from it. Merlin could only hear what should be there as his feet carried him along.

Soon he was where his legs knew he needed to be. His hands pushed open the door. His eyes filled with tears. He was home. Well, it wasn’t home anymore. It was the skeleton of what had once been a room so filled with life. Merlin’s very heart ached.

His legs no longer supported him and soon he was a crumpled ball on the floor. Glassy eyes looked at the room he had spent so many hours in. A dusty table, that should be filled with food. Abandoned work benches that should be littered with herbs cut in various herbs. A bed that should be filled.

Merlin hands clawed at the floor, emotion that he couldn’t control swirling within him like a typhoon. He had left the man who was almost a father. He had missed his last years. He had been unable to save him. He had failed.  
  
Merlin didn’t know how long he stayed there. Sobs wracked his body, has whole form shaking with cold and desperation. Why had he left him? How could he have done that? Why had he not tried to save Gaius. Merlin didn’t have answers. He only had a feeling in the pit of his stomach. A despair that threaten to make him throw up all over the stone that had not seen feet upon it in far too long.

It could have been minutes, could have been hours, when Merlin finally managed to pull the broken pieces of himself back together, using clay to spread over the cracks. It would have to do for now. It was the way that it had been for the past ten years.

Merlin stood on shaky feet and made his way back toward the room that the King had given him. A room empty of everything but furniture. Just as the castle was. The mere bones of a mighty beast that had once struck fear and awe into the heart of everyone that saw it. Now nothing but a skeleton.

* * *

Merlin managed a few hours of sleep. Or he thought he did. His thoughts were such a mess of emotion that it was hard to tell. But he needed to pull himself together. Needed to keep hold of the reason that he was here. Needed to not loose himself in the bombardment of memories. He was a King, for crying out loud. He needed to keep in mind what was best for his people.

“Morning Merls.” It was Gwaine, who else could it have been with that ridiculous nickname. Merlin looked up at the knight with a scowl.

“Good morning Gwaine.” Merlin’s tone held the hint of frustration he felt at the knight this early in the morning. The man merely widened his grin.

“Time for training. The others are waiting outside. You coming?”

Merlin nodded as he stood from his position seated at the small desk that sat on one wall of the room. Just because they were in an enemy kingdom it didn’t mean that they were going to let themselves get sloppy. They had an army for treason. They could not let themselves slip, especially when they were most vulnerable.

Even with hoods pulled up and faces shrouded, Merlin could feel the nostalgia coming off the two ex-Camelot knights in waves. He could relate. He was still drained from the night before.

But Merlin pushed those thoughts aside; there was no time for them. They made their way to the training grounds. The sun was only just skimming the sky.

“Gren” Gwaine’s name in the public settings that they found themselves in. Just as Lancelot’s was Lane. “Take everyone on a warm up.”

“Sure thing Emmy.” Merlin scowled. “Just go Gwa-Gren.”

The man quickly turned to the rest of the group, avoiding Merlin’s annoyed gaze. Good. Otherwise Merlin would have been having words with the cheeky knight.

“Warm up everyone. Three laps.” They were off.

Merlin in the meantime set up their training materials. That was enough of a warm up for him. The effort that the amount of magic was going to require, would leave him as breathless as those that had run their laps.

Hands raised and words chanted. Merlin’s eyes flashed an even brighter gold. Even behind the mangled blood shot eye, gold was forcing its way through. The very core of Merlin’s being trying to push through the broken half of him. Trying to heal something that needed more than magic.

From Merlin’s hands, light spread out, changing and forming into familiar shapes. Targets, weapons, dummies, ground engraved runes. All the perfect equipment for the next hours of well practiced practice. Hand spreading across the training arena, altering and manipulating the very matter of the grounds. Only the magic of a Warlock.

As Merlin finished, his breath coming fast, so did those ready to use the equipment he had just made. They were practiced at this. They had had years.

“Grab a weapon.” Merlin had got his breath back. “We’ll warm up with some spars.”

Lancelot, being the most knowledgable knight in their current group wondered through the pairs, with a careful eye. Correcting form, stance, posture. With each weapon came a different set of skills and Lancelot had spent his years honing all of them.

“Arm up Claudin. Step to the right Mordred. Gren, at least try to dodge.”

Partners changed. Possible deaths tallied. It seemed that Olwen would have died several times in all of her matches. That wasn’t surprising. She was the youngest. She had never really fought in real battles. But she trained just as hard as every other member there.

“Right” Merlin clapped his hands together, finishing the discussions and mockery at stupid moves and embarrassing missteps. There were always a few members who fell flat on their faces.

“Target practice. No weapons. I want everyone on magic.”

“Emmy no…” Gwaine whined.

“Gren. Don’t you start. I said what I said.”

Gwaine sighed “Fine.” He stamped his feet and Merlin was sure that under the hood he was making a face. A child. An utter child. Merlin didn’t know why he had ever put the man in charge of his army.

Said man ran toward the targets. As he was going his head turned to the rather despondent looking Olwen. He slapped her on the shoulder and said some words that Merlin couldn’t hear. But the face that had seconds before been subdued, lit up in a smile. Oh. That was why.

“Right. Lines of three. Gren, I want you by yourself.” Merlin smirked at the knight. “Practice makes perfect, after all.”

A few grumbles and shuffling feet. They were in lines.

“Ready.” Merlin barked across the training grounds “Aim” A pause. “Fire”

Chanting words proceeded balls of light, fire, ice and even one streak of lighting, flashing across the short distance. His soldiers just kept improving.

However, on the last target only a small flicker of flame moved a few centimetres.

“Fay, take over” It took a nod and a glance before the small druid woman was stepping from her own line into Merlin’s previous position.

Merlin looked to his second in command. His best friend. The man who had followed him further than Merlin had ever thought that he would. Or could. He set a hand on his shoulder.

“Trying fire today?”

Gwaine only hummed, sounded slightly disgruntled. Definitely frustrated.

“Fire’s a little more temperamental. You have to let it find its own way.” Merlin clenched the tensed shoulder. “You have to relax.”

Gwaine tried. Merlin could feel the attempt at relaxing the muscles. That pulled a small smile at the cracked lips, the reddened eye crinkling with affection. Gwaine was new to magic and merlin knew it was not easy. It had been a year since he had started. His spell work was still sloppy. His posture unused to the positions. His very being still uncertain.

“Try again.”

Gwaine’s hand outstretched as Merlin’s own dropped. Gwaine’s eyes focused on the target. He kept his gaze firm and he screwed up his eyes. Too tense. But he could push through it. Muttered words that he stumbled over. Flames flickering at fingers.

Gwaine’s hand withdrew before he pushed forward. Eyes pinning his intended goal. This time flames shot from the palm, skittering across the already blackened ground. The flames reached only about a meter. But that was further than Gwaine had managed before.

However, before Merlin had a chance to complement, to suggest improvement, a voice interrupted his steps.

“You’re gonna win wars with that.” the voice scoffed. It was a ridicule, even as the words seemed a question.

Merlin and Gwaine turned. Not quickly. Not violently. They turned with grace and raised brows of derision. They knew who would be speaking. The arrogance of a Camelot knight was as blinding as sun. Even with one’s back to it, the heat still blistered skin. How ugly.

“I didn’t know that there were wars that needed fighting.” Merlin scowled.

The knight barked out a laugh. “It shows. Couldn’t fight your way off a battlement.”

The man was young. Young and arrogant. What a beautiful combination. The men he was mocking were old and worn out in his squinting eyes. It didn’t matter that Merlin was just over thirty. The Camelot Knight was still grasping at twenty summers. He thought that everyone was old.

“You think your fighting is superior?” The voice came from under Gwaine’s hood. It was verging on a growl.

A huffed laugh started the response. “Of course.” It was said as though it was the most evident statement. An objective truth.

“You want to test it?” Gwaine’s hand was on the sword that lived at his waist.

The young Knight’s lips curled in a sneered smile. “How could I refuse.”

There was a murmur from the other Knights who stood behind the young recruit. Three of them; obviously there to get in some early morning training. Well, as Merlin cast his gave across them, he was sure that they would be learning a lesson this morning.

Merlin smirked. With a click of his fingers and a spread of his hand, the perfect arena appeared from thin air. Breath seemed knocked out of lungs. Four sets of eyes widened. The young knight took a step back and a glance down. Below his feet were the white markings in perfect place.

“I believe that names are customary before a battle.” Merlin straightened his cracked lips.

Gwaine stepped forward at the wordless command.

“Sir Gren. Knight of King Emrys.” A small bow, eyes never leaving the younger man’s form.

“Sir Pellias. Knight of the true King Arthur.”

Merlin cast a side eye at the egotistical knight. “I’m sure.”

“Rules.” Merlin barked out, hiding the words that went unheard by the knight. “Normal sparing rules apply. No shields. No fists. First to draw blood is our winner.”

“Sir Gren, Sir Pellias. Ready yourself.” The sound of snicking metal; swords against scabbards. Extended metal, the swords almost touching.

“Begin.”

Pellias dived almost before the words had left Merlin’s mouth. He near skidded across the ground. An overcommitment which Gwaine was quick to dodge. A quick sidestep. Gwaine could have ended him then and there. But both he and Merlin knew that it was more fun to play.

Setting up an opening and then smashing the younger knights hopes. Over and over. Dodging a blade, forcing metal to jam into the hard ground, a clatter against armour. Gwaine was only toying with him; making no move to draw even a drop.

But Merlin was getting bored. This could take all day. “We have a meeting to get to Gren.”

“Of course My King.”

It was over in a second. The blade slid across an exposed hand; an insult. The fingers holding the sword began to drip red. A place that should have been the easiest to protect, the one with the most value. The sword clattered to the floor. Defeated.

“Clear out, Gren.”

Gwaine wasn’t even out of breath as he left. Whereas the knight who he had bested now seemed to rock on his feet, panting. Blood still dripped onto the brown below.

“As you command.” Gwaine ran off before he could be shouted at.

Gold flashing eyes, equally wide ones watching. Hands spread and matter manipulated. The grounds were just as they had been. Perfect timing. Just as the rest of the knights stepped out into the grounds. Magic dispersed and with it so did the equipment. It left only the question as to whether anyone had actually seen them.

“Must be off.” Merlin glanced at the stone still knights. “Kings to see.”

 


End file.
